


I Still Believe

by TheMorningGlory



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, Academia, Betty and Jughead attend private school together, Bullying, Emotional, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Love Confessions, Pining Jughead Jones, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Stonewall is based on schools irl for the sake of realism, Tender romance, coffee shop convos, contemplative Jughead, fade into you begins to play..., prep school bughead, season one vibes, studying at the library
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:22:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22490743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMorningGlory/pseuds/TheMorningGlory
Summary: Leaving the classroom, at least, for Betty and Jughead, feels a lot like fleeing Egypt.They each breathe a collective sigh of relief as they step outside, taking in the cool winter air as it hits their necks and faces. Because of the time of year, the trek across campus feels more and more like a walk through the wilderness with each passing day. Soon, the first snow of the season will fall – the campus and the surrounding areas will be covered in blankets of crisp, white snow. This will only make Stonewall Prep feel more exclusive – and isolating – than it already is.___Forsythe Pendleton Jones is admitted into Stonewall Prep based on his academic merit alone. Unfortunately for him, though, the majority of the students there are very well-to-do. He's not.But he's trying to fit in - he has one best friend, Betty Cooper. They do everything together - he'll even be staying with her over the holidays.This would be a non-issue if it wasn't for that fact that he's in love with her.
Relationships: Betty Cooper & Jughead Jones, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 31
Kudos: 68





	1. reaching

Oh, oh  
I've been in a cave,  
For forty days,  
Only a spark,  
To light my way.  
I want to give out,  
I want to give in,  
This is our crime,  
This is our sin.

"I Still Believe" - Lyrics By Michael Been and Jim Goodwin

* * *

“I think we are just about out of time,” Mr. Hughes states, glancing down at his wristwatch. “But since I’m a glutton for punishment,” he adds, grinning as he stares back at the class, their eyes still fixated on him, “I think we can finish this lecture up today, don’t you?”

His challenge is met with quiet groans, which echo across the classroom. Believing they can suddenly become invisible to his leery gaze, a few students sink into their desks, attempting to conceal themselves from view. It doesn’t work, though; the teachers eyes dart this way and that, meeting a few wide-eyed students who shrink back in terror.

Mr. Hughes scans the room for an unwitting pupil, which he finds easily. “Forsythe,” he says, fixing his gaze upon the young man sitting in the front row. “It’s your turn.”

Forsythe Pendleton Jones, who is busy scribbling something in his own personal spiral – _too busy_ , in fact, to even notice him – looks up from his desk suddenly and finds the teacher staring at him.

“Tell me,” he says, drumming the surface of the desk behind his back with a closed fist. “What does the story mean to you? Interpret it for me.”

Jughead swallows. A few of his peers who are sitting near his desk snicker. The jeers of the students only add to his anxiety.

He stands up slowly, shoving one hand in his uniform’s coat pocket. “Kafka’s story,” he begins, “is more symbolic than anything because –”

Mr. Hughes interrupts him. “Louder for the people in the back, Forsythe.” He crosses his arms and waits.

“I think,” he begins carefully, “that Mr. Samsa just woke up one day and didn’t recognize himself. I think he looked in the bathroom mirror and found a monster staring back at him. He was disgusted with what he allowed himself to become in real life. He had a preconceived image of what his life should look like, but because he no longer remotely resembled his true self in any sense of the word, the result was a distortion – a monster.”

Mr. Hughes seems surprised at his response. “That’s very insightful, Forsythe. Anything else?”

Jughead appears to be thinking of a response when a couple of students in the back of the classroom begin heckling him. The leader of the group clears his throat and coughs loudly, saying, “Trailer trash,” as his friends around him begin laughing hysterically.

Dismayed, Jughead almost turns around to confront them; he turns his head in their direction and his eyes meet Betty’s – she smiles sympathetically. He sighs because he knows she gets it.

Irritated by their lack of decorum, Mr. Hughes looks past Jughead and turns his attention to the students in the back of the classroom. “That’s enough, Mr. Mantle. If you think you can do a better job than Forsythe did, then you answer the question.”

Reggie smiles sheepishly. “Er, that’s okay, sir,” he says, pressing his back against his chair.

Mr. Hughes glares at him sternly. “That’s what I thought.”

Soon, the sound of the school bell ringing noisily above their heads deafens their ears.

Amidst the noise, Betty reaches out to Jughead; she taps him on the forearm to get his attention. “That was really good,” she whispers.

He smiles. “Thanks.”

Mr. Hughes uncrosses his arms and stands up from his resting position. “Just a quick reminder, class,” he says, walking around the length of his desk. “The final paper is due before the holidays commence. You may slide a hard copy under my office door or email it to me.”

His announcement is met with a collective murmur among the students. A few barely audible groans escape the mouths of a few students, who are sitting in the front row.

“Oh, and if I don’t see you at the winter formal,” he adds, “enjoy your break.”

Eager to leave, Jughead begins shoving the last of his things into his backpack. The students file out of the classroom one by one, and Betty, who is already packed and ready to go, waits patiently for him to finish. As he slings his backpack over his shoulders, Reggie Mantle passes by his desk and makes eye contact with him.

“Trash,” he mouths, laughing derisively.

Jughead stares at him. “Is that the only word in your vocabulary?” he asks flatly. “Because if that’s the case, then you should really ask for your tuition money back.”

“At least I have money,” Reggie chides as he exits the classroom.

“Original,” Jughead murmurs.

The classroom is nearly empty now. When Jughead finally looks at Betty, he hopes that she can’t see the pain behind his eyes. He wonders if she’s thinking the same thing as Reggie. The mere thought, though irrational, terrifies him. There’s a tiny part of him that invariably thinks he’ll always be seen as less than. Thankfully, though, her eyes tell a different story – she smiles.

“Ready?” she asks.

His face feels warm now. “As much as I’ll ever be,” he replies, running his fingers through his hair.

Mr. Hughes clears his throat to get their attention. “Forsythe,” he says.

At the sound of the teacher’s voice, they each turn around. 

Mr. Hughes motions for Jughead to come forward. “A word, if you please.”

He and Betty exchange curious glances.

“Should I step outside?” Betty asks politely, pointing at the door.

Mr. Hughes shakes his head. “That’s alright, Ms. Cooper. I’m sure Forsythe won’t mind me saying this in front of you, I think.” He smiles courteously.

“That depends on what it is, sir.”

The teacher crosses his arms. “I’ve always known you were a terrific writer,” he says. “But today you showed me something else, a different side of you as it were. You demonstrated to me that you’re a thinker as well. I like that. How would you like to come and write for me on the school newspaper?”

A look of incredulity appears on Jughead’s face. “I thought that was only open to the upperclassman,” he says in disbelief.

“It is,” he says firmly. “But I made the rules, so, technically, I can break them.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he replies, glancing back at Betty.

“I believe a yes would be the appropriate response.”

“I –” Jughead puts his hand on his head like he’s processing the moment. “Yes,” he says quickly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Great. We’ll go over the details next week.”

His heart is pounding excitedly in his chest now. He can’t hardly believe what’s happened, can’t hardly believe his luck, which is why he says, suddenly, “It’s not because you feel sorry for me, is it?” He regrets it almost instantly.

“ _Jug_ ,” Betty whispers his name behind him.

Mr. Hughes appears taken aback by what he’s said. “Sorry for you? Why on earth would you think that?” he asks plainly.

Jughead shrugs. He’s clearly embarrassed by his own brash statement. “I’m not a legacy,” he says.

Mr. Hughes raises his eyebrows at him. “Since when did being a legacy ever buy anyone talent?” he asks.

“Money talks,” Jughead murmurs. He kicks the sole of his shoe against the floor, looking down shamefacedly at the linoleum tiling.

Mr. Hughes gives him a solemn look. “Money also silences,” he retorts.

Jughead can hear Betty shuffling close behind him. He looks up at Mr. Hughes and proceeds to apologize. “I don’t know why I said that,” he admits. He shoves his hands in his pockets, thinking that he should probably do himself a favor and just be quiet.

“Forsythe,” Mr. Hughes says. “If you’re suggesting that I’m offering you this position because you aren’t rich, or because you aren’t a legacy, you’d be gravely mistaken. I am well aware of your plight here,” he adds, “but that’s not why I’m doing this.”

His comment is met with silence.

“I need talent in my pool of writers,” Mr. Hughes explains. “Besides,” he says, crossing his arms, “with how hard I am on everyone here, do you really think I would ever let anyone on my team that wasn’t qualified?”

Jughead shrugs. “I suppose not.”

Mr. Hughes manages a smile. “You would do well to remind yourself of the reason you were admitted into this school once in a while,” he says.

Jughead cups the nape of his neck and looks at him awkwardly. “I don’t even know why I said that earlier,” he admits. “Sorry.”

Mr. Hughes grabs a pile of papers on the desk and pushes his back against his chair. “Have a little more confidence in yourself, Forsythe. It’ll do you good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

“Good.”

Jughead observes Mr. Hughes subtle shift into the dictator persona he exudes during class. His brow furrows and directly above his eyebrows three distinct wrinkles emerge from the action. Then, he glances at the clock on the wall like time is not on his side; he grabs a pile of papers on his desk and begins tapping them loudly against its surface. Jughead takes this as his cue to leave – leave before he can do anything to wreck his chance with the school newspaper. He turns around. Betty’s there waiting for him. She’s standing at the door, looking just as elated as he is.

“Congratulations,” she whispers meekly.

His smile is understated. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to grab a coffee?” she asks. “I could use a pick me up before chapel.”

He’s never been so grateful for the mundane. 

“Lead the way.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

Leaving the classroom, at least, for Betty and Jughead, feels a lot like fleeing Egypt.

They each breathe a collective sigh of relief as they step outside, taking in the cool winter air as it hits their necks and faces. Because of the time of year, the trek across campus feels more and more like a walk through the wilderness with each passing day. Soon, the first snow of the season will fall – the campus and the surrounding areas will be covered in blankets of crisp, white snow. This will only make Stonewall Prep feel more exclusive – and isolating – than it already is.

The general atmosphere pervading the main building – a High Victorian Gothic, which was formerly a nun’s living quarters, and was converted into the classrooms they frequent now – serves as a reminder of such bygone eras. The school itself has a rich, cultural heritage. It also boasts an impressive list of former attendees: the state’s current senator is an alumnus of the school.

It’s an elite institution, to be sure. Few students are admitted based upon merit alone. So, for Jughead, being selected to work on staff for the school newspaper feels like he’s one step closer to belonging.

“You’re going to write for the paper!” Betty says to him excitedly as they walk. “Can you believe it?”

“I can’t believe I said that to him earlier,” he responds.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” she says, attempting to dispel his fears. “I’m sure he’ll forget all about it after the weekend.”

He looks at her. “If you say so.”

“I know so,” she says firmly. “Let’s hurry. I’m getting cold out here.”

“Agreed.”

After several minutes of brisk walking, they pass by the main building on campus and head in the direction of the building beside it, which boasts its very own tiny, but lively coffee shop.

Jughead jogs ahead of Betty to get the door. “After you,” he says, holding it open for her.

She grins. “Why, thank you.”

A strong gust of wind hits their backs as they slip inside.

“Oh, it feels so much warmer in here,” Betty says in relief, hugging her arms together tightly.

Jughead glances at his wristwatch. “Thankfully, we have some time before chapel,” he says as the two of them stroll into the coffee shop.

There is already a line of students ahead of them – it’s typical for this time of morning. Half the tables and chairs are already taken or about to become occupied as the line moves quickly.

Jughead glances at Betty. “The usual?” he asks.

She nods. “I’ll save us a table.”

As Jughead goes to order up front, Betty walks over to the corner of the room where there are two leather armchairs and a small table facing the window. She throws her backpack into one seat and settles down in the other. She crosses her legs and rests her elbow against the surface of the table, yawning as she rests her head against her hand. With how close her face is to the window, she can practically feel the cool external temperature radiating from the glass. She shuts her eyes and smiles.

Before long, she hears the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind her.

“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” He places her coffee on the table in front of her.

She opens her eyes. “Not quite,” she says.

Jughead pushes her backpack to the edge of the chair and sits down. “We have so much work to do before break,” he says. “I don’t know how I’m going to manage it all without pulling a couple of all nighters.”

Betty takes a sip of her coffee. “It’ll get better after the holidays,” she says. “I promise.”

Jughead furrows his brow. “If you say so.” He cradles his cup of coffee and stares at the surface of the table like he doesn’t believe her.

She grins. “You just have to have a plan when you study,” she says. “During finals week, I study two full days for each class.”

“Are their breaks allotted in this plan of yours?”

Betty smiles and tilts her head at him disapprovingly. “ _Jughead_.”

“Just wondering,” he says.

Betty takes a sip of her coffee; it tastes warm against the tip of her tongue as she savors the flavor.

She glances out the window. She sees students in uniforms walking all over campus. Some of them appear more anxious than others, and she watches curiously as a young couple – a girl and a much taller boy – kiss before parting ways. This makes her smile as she takes another sip of her coffee.

Meanwhile, Jughead pulls a notebook out from the inside of his backpack and begins thumbing through its pages. He traces his eyebrows with his thumb and index finger – he appears to be thinking about something on the page as he pulls a pen from his pocket. He begins scratching at a word on the paper with his pen.

Suddenly, and without warning, a shrill female voice interrupts his concentration.

“Betty!”

The voice pulls the two of them out of their own little world – they make brief eye contact with each other and turn their heads in its direction.

Veronica Lodge makes her way to their table with Archie following close behind her. “I’m so glad I ran into you both here,” she says.

Archie smiles at them. “Hey, Jughead.”

“Hey.”

Jughead, who is still getting used to the whole social scene at Stonewall, is unsure of how open he should be with people, Archie included. But he’s trying – and he knows it’s better to have allies in a place like this than enemies. Plus, they’ve been relatively welcoming since he started going to school here. So, he tries to be friendly, too.

“Jughead, I have your suit. I dry-cleaned two of Archie’s old suits and put them in his bedroom closet.” She turns to looks at Archie. “You two can decide who’s wearing what,” she tells him.

Archie grins. “Just come by my room whenever,” he says to Jughead.

Jughead appears visibly relieved. “Thank you,” he says. He takes a sip of his coffee and glances at Betty – he’s hoping she’ll continue the conversation, so he’ll feel a bit less awkward.

Thankfully, she knows exactly what his look means.

“So, I found my dress,” Betty says to Veronica, grinning.

“Did you?”

Betty smiles and nods her head. “It’s blue,” she says. “And satin.”

Veronica clasps her hands together excitedly. “I can’t wait to see it,” she says. “As you know, I’m keeping mine a surprise.” She looks at Archie and raises her eyebrows playfully. “I’m surprised you two didn’t find dates,” she adds, looking back at Betty and Jughead like there’s something more she wants to say.

Jughead takes the lid off his coffee cup. “Betty said I have to go at least once because it’s a Stonewall Prep tradition,” he says, imbibing the last of his coffee. “She was insistent.”

“She’s right,” Veronica says, beaming. “Wait until you see the décor, Betty. We had a huge budget this year. The theme is One Night in Paris,” she says, emphasizing each word with her hands raised in the air dramatically like she’s a gameshow hostess.

Jughead grins. “I’ll bet,” he says in response.

This makes Archie laugh.

Veronica gives them both a stern look. “You’ll see,” she says assuredly, pointing her finger in the air. “I worked with an interior decorator – it’s going to be amazing.”

Betty glances at the clock on the wall and suddenly realizes what time it is. “Guys, we’ve got to go.”

Veronica grabs Archie’s hand. “See you two in a bit,” she says.

Jughead gets up from his seat and tosses his coffee cup while Betty gathers her things.

“Is she always like that?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Betty slings her backpack over her shoulder. “She’s just very passionate,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “But if she says it’s going to be amazing, then, trust me, it will be.”

“Ah.” Jughead grins as they begin walking in the direction of the Chapel.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Tucked away at the edge of the campus is a tiny little chapel called Gloire Du Matin, or “Morning Glory,” which is named in part from the Exodus 16: 7 verse – _and in the morning you will see the Lord’s glory_ – but it also boasts that namesake also because of the beautiful flowers that sprinkle the surrounding ground during the spring and summer months. It always manages to look like something out of a painting – it’s a favorite refuge of the teachers and students alike, who like to sit on its outside benches during their breaks and just enjoy a bit of nature.

At nightfall, the students visit the chapel and light a candle in prayer, hoping for an answer in the morning. The rest of the attending student body is required to attend Chapel at least once a week, where the campus Chaplain makes announcements regarding the school’s social events prior to the commencement of the service. Occasionally, a couple of students fall asleep during these announcements, but for the most part, the majority of them are just grateful to have a brief moment of repose from their academic Pharaohs.

As Betty and Jughead hurry along, they watch as their peers file into the chapel – it looks like a sea of black as the students walk inside – at least, from their vantage point, due to the color of their uniforms.

Betty is visibly shivering as they walk. “I’m freezing,” she says to Jughead.

“Almost there,” he replies. He runs ahead of her and jogs up the front steps to get the door.

Betty is still hugging her arms together as she hurries up the steps. She slips past him and he shuts the door behind them.

The inside of the Chapel feels warm and cozy, and Betty immediately breathes out a light sigh of relief.

Jughead notices that most of the seats are already taken. “Can we sit closer to the back,” he says in a hushed voice, meeting her eyes. He still doesn’t quite feel like he belongs at Stonewall, and the sheer number of classes they’re required to attend is already daunting enough without adding the additional electives – including Chapel – to his daily routine. 

She nods and looks over at the last row, hoping he’ll understand and follow her. They sit at the end of the row and wait. He glances at Betty and she smiles before looking towards the front of the Chapel. A hush falls over the students as the Chaplain, who is sitting adjacent to the Bishop in the front row stands up. They accidentally bump knees as Jughead tries to see past the head of a tall student sitting in front of him.

He looks at her apologetically. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

“Don’t be.” She smiles at him reassuringly.

The Chaplain stands up as he’s about to address the students. “My announcements will be brief today,” he says in part. “I’d like to direct your attention to the back of the Chapel.” He nods his head in that direction.

The students who are paying attention turn to face the back of the room.

“A couple of things,” he says. “If you’ll notice, we have added an additional box for the toy drive in the back. We are still taking donations, so if you can give anything,” he urges, “it would be immensely appreciated.”

A student sitting close to the front raises their hand. “Any type of toy?” a female voice asks.

“Yes,” he says. “We are mainly looking for toys for younger children, but if you have something else to give, please donate it. As many of you know, this school was built upon the generosity of many philanthropists,” he adds genially. He looks over at the Bishop, who says something to him that Jughead can’t quite make out from where he’s seated.

“Ah, yes.” The Chaplain looks back at the students who are starring at him curiously. “I have just been reminded of another addition to Gloire Du Matin,” he says. “We have added a prayer box in the back for any of you that need prayer but want to ask for it privately. It’s on the table in the back.” He looks over at the Bishop, who stands up from his seated position. “I’ll let Bishop Johnson take it from here. Have a nice weekend,” he adds, vacating the front of the sanctuary.

Out of sheer curiosity, Jughead turns his attention to the table in the corner in the back of the room. There’s a medium-sized mahogany box on it – it’s sealed shut – fastened securely with a mini padlock on its end. Intrigued, he raises his eyebrows like he’s just seen something thought-provoking. To him, it looks like a box of secrets.

Meanwhile, the Bishop walks over to where the Chaplain was standing previously and takes his place at the altar. “Please stand for the reading of the word,” he says with his hands outstretched, motioning for them to stand.

As the students stand up from their seated positions, Jughead tears his gaze from the prayer box – he catches Betty’s eye and she smiles at him like she can tell what he’s thinking. When the Bishop begins reading a passage from the Psalms, Jughead looks back at the box. He resolves to put something into it – something personal – without being seen.

Just above their heads, a window cracks open. A dove appears; it rests in the crack, perched on the tiniest space where the window flew open.

.

.

.

.

.

.

As the service draws to a close, Jughead glances at the windows next to Betty. The glass panels have frosted over, which gives the atmosphere around them a hazy, dreamlike quality. This feeling is only intensified by the lit ivory candles – they’re each situated on tiny candlesticks at the bottom of each windowsill.

Soon, his gaze travels higher; Jughead finds himself staring at the clerestory windows which are close to the ceiling. He watches in awe as a white dove flies away suddenly from one of the little windows – its wings and feet leave the perch in two swooshes and off it goes, flying into the wind as it heads towards the direction of the sun. This jolts him awake somehow and he directs his attention back to the Bishop, who’s head is bowed solemnly. He does the same, listening to the prayer as its being said.

Once the prayer ends, things go quiet. He can feel the movement all around him, so he looks up to find that many of his classmates are already vacating their seats. He turns to look at Betty. She’s already grabbing her backpack, and he knows he has to make this quick.

As Betty stands up, she loops her arms through the straps on her backpack. “Do you want to go to the library?” she asks. “We can get a head start on studying, and I can show you my study plan.”

“Yes,” he replies quickly.

Betty looks at him like she’s waiting for him to get up.

“I’ll meet you outside in a second,” he says, moving aside for her.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to wait?”

He shakes his head. “No, that’s okay.”

She smiles and walks past him, meeting Veronica and a few other classmates at the door. She looks back at him, and he waves casually to let her know he’ll be out in a few.

Once she steps outside, Jughead breathes a sigh of relief. The Chapel is mostly empty now, and he feels like he has just enough time to get this done. He quickly begins fumbling in his own backpack for his notebook. He looks up as he’s doing so, fearful that anyone – especially Reggie – or someone else might see him. One he finds his notebook he flips to its empty pages. Without thinking, he tears a piece of paper out of it and begins to write.

_God,_

_I’ll be honest with you, I’m not very seasoned in the art of prayer, but I do write._

_Initially, I was going to ask my friend to the winter formal, but, alas, I chickened out at the last minute. In all honesty, I don’t think she even knows that I like her. She’s one of my only close friends here, and I'm getting tired of feeling so alone all the time._

_Can you please help me? The Bishop said your son is our anchor, but what I really need right now is a lifeboat._

_J.J._

Jughead reads and rereads his letter. Satisfied that it conveys what he wants it to – desperation – he lets out a loud, exasperated sigh, and walks over to the prayer box. He glances over his shoulder; no one is there, so he feels like it’s safe to drop inside the box. He folds it in half, being careful with the crease, and pauses as he looks at the box. “Please, let this work,” he says to himself as if he’s exacting some courage from within. When that doesn’t work, he shuts his eyes, so he doesn’t have to watch himself do it – he feels around for the opening with the edge of the paper and just lets it go. He opens his eyes slowly afterwards. It’s gone; the paper is nowhere to be seen, so he knows it’s done. He sighs in relief, running his hands through his hair after he’s pulled his beanie off. Then, he runs back over to where his backpack is, grabs it, and takes one last look at the sanctuary.

It’s empty, but it doesn’t _feel_ empty.

Unnerved by this feeling, Jughead quickly does an about face and walks out of the Chapel. Once he’s outside, a gust of wintry wind hits him in the face. It tousles his hair and stings his cheeks. Then, the wind moves behind him and causes the door to the chapel to slam shut. The cool air serves as a reminder of the impending snowfall, and as he exhales, his breath becomes visible before his eyes.

Betty is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, and he jogs down the steps to meet her.

“Ready?” she asks.

He nods. “I didn’t mean to keep you,” he says awkwardly, shoving his hands in his coat pocket.

“You didn’t,” she replies, smiling. “I’m just cold out here.”

“Do you want my jacket?” he asks worriedly.

“No,” she says. “That’s okay. But I could use something hot to drink later.”

He sighs in relief. “I’ll make you coffee at the library,” he promises.

“With extra sugar?” she asks as they begin walking in the direction of the library.

Jughead grins. “Caffeine is already bad enough without the sugar.” He steals a glance at Betty. Her cheeks are pink – they’re roughly the same shade as her lips now, and her ponytail is bobbing up and down as they walk.

There’s a moment of silence. Then, it’s Betty’s turn to say something.

“Hey, Jughead?”

He stops walking and turns to face her. He hooks the underside of his thumbs beneath his backpack straps and waits.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

He raises his eyebrows. “What is it?” he asks. There’s a feeling that he can only describe as being parched that overtakes him suddenly. But he’s not thirsty, at least, not in the way one gets when they’re in need of actual water. No, he feels like he can’t breathe.

Betty tilts her head. “What were you doing in there earlier?” she asks curiously.

He swallows. “In the chapel?” he asks redundantly.

She smiles. “Where else?”

Jughead can feel himself stalling. “You know,” he says. “Just being contemplative, that’s all.”

“About what?”

He shrugs. “Things,” he says, deflecting. He stares at the ground before looking up at her again. When their eyes meet, she has that look on her face that he’s grown so accustomed to – it’s the look of worry; he’s used to it by now, but that doesn’t mean that he loathes it any less.

“You’re not still nervous about staying at my parent’s house for winter break, are you?”

“What?” he says, pinching the straps of his backpack. He suddenly realizes that she has no idea what he’s thinking, and says to cover his own embarrassment, “Oh that. No, I mean, you said it would be fine, so I have no reason not to believe you.”

“Good,” she says. “But you still didn’t answer my question.”

He scratches his head awkwardly. “Practicing self-care,” he replies. “You’re always harping on me about that, so I thought I’d give it a try.” He decides that prayer is a form of self-care, even if he is new to it.

This answer seems to satisfy Betty. “So, you’re finally taking my advice,” she says, grinning. “Am I allowed to gloat?”

“Not a chance,” he retorts.

Her subtle grin begins to widen.

He can’t help but smile back at her. “You ask too many questions,” he says to her. “And I seem to always be on the receiving end of them.”

She shrugs. “I was just curious,” she says nonchalantly. “That’s all.”

As they continue walking, Jughead wonders if she knows more than she’s letting on. He knows that there are several oblong clerestory windows in the front of the chapel. What’s more, she could have easily – assuming she had been watching him during the entirety of his moment – seen him standing above the prayer box, letter in hand. But such a thing is unlikely, he decides. After all, what interest would she have in watching him?

When they reach the threshold of the library, he puts the thought out of his mind.

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Stonewall Prep’s Library, which has amassed an impressive collection of rare books over the years, has an entire wing of the library dedicated to such pedagogic gems. Because some of the books are reserved for the library only, and cannot be checked out, some of the school’s wealthier alumni dedicated an entire wing of the library to the enjoyment of such books. The wing itself has several reading nooks, a long, rectangular table with leather armchairs on every side, and a corner with a myriad of comfy couches and chairs. Over the years, it’s become a favorite place of repose for students; the east wing is especially popular during finals week – many of the students hide in there to take an uninterrupted nap on one of the couches.

Incidentally, it’s also one of Jughead’s favorite hideouts.

As Betty and Jughead make their way to the east wing, they pass several students who are in the middle of studying for finals; it appears that some of them are taking things in stride. Others, however, are treating finals like the only thing that has priority in their lives; some of the more zealous students have their entire desks littered with papers and books. Others, who appear less stressed, have their laptops out on tables with a few pencils and pens beside them. It’s an illusion though; up close, these students’ hands are shaking just a little as they take generous swigs of coffee from their metal cannisters.

Jughead tries not to let the site of these students cause him any distress. This proves difficult, however. He passes one student – a foreign exchange student from Eastern Europe – who’s eyebrows appear to be in a permanent state of shock as he stares at his laptop. This causes him to swallow.

Once he and Betty have walked up a flight of stairs, they turn in the direction of east wing. Betty spies a couch in the distance, and she begins speed walking in its direction, leaving Jughead trailing behind her. She throws her backpack on a couch cushion, temporarily claiming the fabric thrones as their own, and turns around to face him.

“Be right back,” he says quickly, handing off his backpack to her.

Betty grabs it and immediately secures the other end of the couch. “Jughead?” she says.

He stops and turns around.

She smiles. “Don’t forget the sugar.”

His reaction is a smirk. He turns his back towards her, murmuring teasingly, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he heads in the direction of the student lounge, his eyes meet the somber expressions of the founders of Stonewall Prep, whose portraits are hanging on either side of the hallway. One of them, a former judge, appears to be giving him the once over; his glasses are tipped down to the edge of his nose and his mouth is curled just a little on one side. His venerable portrait is the very definition of a man full of power. And pride. By contrast, his wife’s portrait, which looks every bit as impressive, seems to be a bit less haughty – she has a bright, gleaming smile and looks like the picture of grace if ever he’s seen it.

He pulls his gaze from the portraits and is met, instead, with a cold, real-life stare.

“Trash is that way,” Reggie says matter-of-factly, pointing his index finger towards the door to the student lounge.

Jughead doesn’t respond. Thankfully for him, though, Reggie doesn’t seem interested in his response; instead, he grins smugly to himself, guffaws under his breath, and keeps walking. Once he’s out of his direct line of vision, Jughead rolls his eyes. He keeps walking until he pushes open the doors to the lounge.

Inside, there’s a student in the corner of the room reading. The clock on the wall is ticking away as the same student, likely an upperclassman, turns the page of his book. He doesn’t seem interested in doing anything else.

Jughead eyes the kitchenette section of the lounge – it’s empty. Relieved, he goes over to where the coffee machine is situated. He pulls a clean glass pot from the inside of the cabinet, grabs a filter, and the jar of Community Coffee and places it atop the counter.

That’s when he notices the jar of sugar; it’s filled to the brim. He slides it across the counter and pops the glass top open. As he begins scooping coffee beans into the filter, he wonders if he should talk to Betty now, or wait until the evening. The odds aren’t necessarily in his favor by waiting. Then again, he reasons, it might be better just to get it over with. At the very least, he could save Archie and Veronica the unnecessary expense of dry-cleaning his suit.

Be brave, he tells himself, spooning sugar into a to-go cup.

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Jughead has two cups of coffee in hand as he exits the student lounge. He’s grinning because he thinks he’s sweetened Betty’s coffee just right – she always said that she required approximately two and a half teaspoons of sugar – that and a dash of milk.

As the coffee was percolating in the lounge, so, too, were his thoughts.

He’s decided that he’s definitely telling her.

And he’s going to start by asking her to the Winter Formal _officially_.

But his newfound courage soon fades. Just ahead, he spies the backside of Reggie Mantle – he’s talking to Betty, and she seems to be responding to him relatively well. Then again, he tells himself as his heart begins to pound rapidly beneath his chest, she’s like that with everyone. She’s just a naturally amiable person, who is willing to help anyone with whatever they may need – it’s one of the many reasons he likes her.

He sucks in his breath responsively and looks for an out. There is nowhere to go – he can either move forward or play the coward. Either move seems futile; he opts to hang back, hoping Reggie will leave soon. When he looks right, he spies a large pillar.

Taking care that no one sees him, he hides behind the marble column and peers over its gilded edge. It feels awkward trying to discern what’s going on from his point of view. He can’t quite make out what either of them are saying – Betty smiles and says something. Reggie grins in response. Then, he waves to her and begins walking down the hallway. Once he disappears, she goes back to reading.

Relieved, he steps out from the shadow of the column and walks towards her.

“Here,” he says, handing Betty her coffee. “I made it to your exact specifications.”

Betty smiles warmly. “Thank you,” she says, curling her hands around the center of the cup. She takes the lid off and steams billows around her face as she begins blowing on the liquid.

Jughead sits on the seat at the opposite end of her and puts his coffee down on the end table. He takes his beanie off and scratches his head awkwardly, avoiding eye contact with her. “What was Reggie doing here?” he asks, not realizing how defensive he sounds.

“He was asking me to the Winter Formal tomorrow night,” she says unphased.

Jughead feels a weight descend upon his shoulders – he swallows. “So, what did you tell him?” He’s hanging on her every word, trying very hard to appear unaffected by their interaction.

“I told him that I was going with you,” she says.

“You what?”

“I was trying to let him down easily,” she explains. “So, I just told him I was going with friends.”

“Oh.” A small part of him wonders if she would do the same to him. “Don’t feel like you have to turn down dates because of me,” he says, gauging her reaction.

“I don’t,” she says. “He did that to himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re one of my best friends here,” she says. “With the way he’s treated you, I would never go out with him now.”

Jughead watches as she flips through her spiral. “You didn’t have to say that,” he says quietly.

“Say what?”

“That you were going with me or whatever.”

She smiles. “It was just easier that way," she says in earnest.

Clearly, Betty’s missed his hint entirely. He half wonders if he should be more direct. “So, has anyone else asked you?” he says casually, grabbing his own notebook from his backpack.

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “No one’s asked.” She’s looking at something in her notebook, which seems to have roused her interest. “Do you want to go over that study plan now or later?”

“Let’s just get it over with now,” he responds, hoping she’ll forgot what he said entirely.

“I usually organize it by subject,” she says. “Give me a second.”

“Betty?”

“What?” she says.

“Do you want to watch a movie in the commons room later?” he asks.

“I suppose we could both use a study break,” she says. “What movie?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Whatever is on tv. I’m open to suggestions if you have any.”

She smiles. “I’ll bring something,” she replies. “After seven?”

Jughead’s face feels warm suddenly. “Er, yes,” he says. “That’ll work.”

“Great.”

He watches Betty as she goes back to reading – he smiles.

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Living at Stonewall Prep is a lot like being away at summer camp.

It has exactly four dormitories – all co-ed – and the exteriors of the buildings look like miniature Colonial estates. They each have white columns proceeding the front of each entryway, and there is an ornamental arch above each doorpost.

At night, when the campus grows dark, and the lights in the main building shut off, the lights outside the dormitories stay on. When this happens, the students in need of a study break usually step out onto their patios – they like to congregate there and enjoy the stars, talking to one another about nothing in particular.

Jughead likens the entire experience to something out of a Frances Hodgson Burnett novel. Living there is not _unlike_ being an orphan. There are no parents around, and they are free to do as they please, provided they don’t break any school rules. They also don’t have to contend with an evil headmistress; instead, they battle mountains of impossible coursework daily.

At present, Jughead is combing his hair. He glances at the clock on his wall. It’s nearly time to meet with Betty. He throws a sweatshirt over his pajamas and takes one last look in the mirror.

He exhales. “Here goes,” he says somberly, flicking the lights in his dorm room off.

As he walks down the hallway, his plaid pajama bottoms drag across the thick carpeting. He’s telling himself to just be natural – he’s thinking about what to say to her as he walks. Before he turns the corner to the commons room, he prays in his head and shuts his eyes.

The room is basically empty. There’s a fire burning in the background in the fireplace beside the television – it breaks up some of the silence in the room with its subtle, crackling noises. He notices Betty straightaway. She’s sitting on the couch with a surprise for him on the coffee table beside her.

“Surprise,” she says, waving her hands at the pizza and snacks.

He grins. “What’s all this?”

“I thought we could celebrate,” she says. “You’re now the youngest editor on our school’s newspaper staff.”

Jughead runs his left hand through his hair. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he says quietly.

Betty smiles. “I wanted to.”

He sits down beside her and Betty hands him a red paper plate.

“I also brought movies,” she says, grabbing the DVD’s beside her. “See.” She smiles proudly as his facial expression changes and his eyes light up.

He sets his plate besides him and grabs the movies. “How’d you know?” he says, eyeing the first movie excitedly.

“You’re always talking about how much you love old movies,” she says. “I thought these would be a good early Christmas present for you.”

Jughead is suddenly feeling overcome with emotion. He’s elated by her surprise – he wonders, though, if he should still go through with his initial plan. He worries that if something goes wrong, then it would effectively put an end to this, and all the other casual hangouts they do together. He takes a deep breath and glances at Betty. She’s already grabbed a plate and is putting a slice of pizza on it.

“I’ll put a movie on,” he volunteers, standing up from the couch. “Do you have a preference?”

She shakes her head. “Your choice.”

Jughead goes over to the tv and turns it on. He picks the first movie from the bunch – _Giant_. He slides it into the DVD player and hits play. The Metro Goldwyn Meyer Lion flashes across the screen as he’s thinking about how best to proceed.

“This is a long movie,” he says pointedly, turning around to face her. “Is that okay?” He shoves his hands into his pajamas pants to quell his nerves; he grips the plaid fabric at its seams and releases it.

She nods. “Just wake me up if I doze off.” 

“Are you already feeling tired already?” he asks.

“I’m always tired,” she replies.

He sits down beside her and grabs his plate. “Thank you for this,” he says.

Betty presses her lips together. “It was a little bit for me as well,” she admits like she’s telling him a secret. “You know how bad I am about taking breaks.”

He grins. “And here I thought you were being altruistic,” he says, putting a slice of pizza on his plate.

She smiles in response. “I try to be,” she says.

As the credits begin playing, Jughead sets his plate aside. He takes in a deep breath and says, “Hey, Betty?”

“Hm?” She looks over at him.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says quietly. “And I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

“Oh.” She glances at the screen; James Dean is making heart eyes at Elizabeth Taylor as she walks beside him. “Should I pause the movie?”

He scratches his head out of nervousness. “Maybe for a minute,” he says.

She puts her plate down and presses pause.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something for a while now,” he says, meeting her eyes with his. She’s looking at him intently and suddenly, he’s not so sure if he can go through with this.

“Is everything ok?” she asks. “You look upset.”

“I mean, I hope it will be,” he says.

Betty scoots in closer to him. “Jug, what’s going on? Are you worried about staying at my parent’s house during break?” she asks. “Because you don’t need to be. We have a guest room, and there will be plenty of stuff for us to do there,” she says reassuringly. “I promise.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that,” he says.

“Then, what?”

He tries to speak, to remember what he’d rehearsed in his room – _I’m in love with you, please go to the dance with me_ – but nothing comes out.

“Jughead?” she says quietly.

He finally looks at Betty – she’s starring at him.

Her brow furrows. “I think you have something in your hair,” she says to him suddenly, reaching her hand out to pluck the offending item from his head.

“What?” he says.

She blows the tiny pieces of cotton in her hand. “They look like fuzzies from inside of your sweatshirt,” she says gently. “Sorry, that was bothering me.”

“Oh.” He runs his fingers through his hair meticulously. “I ran out of dryer sheets the other day,” he says. “I’ve been too busy to buy some. Is it out now?”

Betty squints. “Look down," she instructs. 

She combs her fingers through his dark hair in a single sweep. Then, she proceeds to blow the extra fuzz all over them. She grins at him as the little cotton pieces fall everywhere.

“I’m afraid it’s all over your head," she says.

The corner of his mouth curls into a smile. “Just my luck,” he replies.

She smiles contentedly. “So, what was it that you wanted to tell me?”

He pauses. He can already feel his adrenaline kicking in as he takes a deep breath. She’s still looking at him, though, the effect of which is to make him feel tongue-tied all over again.

First, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I –” He starts to speak but stops before he says anything further.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he says finally. “It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“I,” he begins. There’s a light pause. “Yeah,” he says after a few seconds, “let’s just watch the movie.”

Betty grabs the remote from the edge of the coffee table.

She presses play, but inside he feels like he’s still on pause.

“Can I ask you something?” he whispers to her.

Betty pulls her legs onto the couch and tucks them into her side. “Okay,” she says quietly.

“Do you think we’ll still be friends in the future?” he asks.

Her expression turns serious. “You’re my best friend,” she says. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

He shrugs, opting to stare at the screen rather than look her in the eyes. “Suppose something happened,” he says. “Something that made us not be friends anymore.”

“Like what?” she replies.

“I don’t know,” he says. “As cliched as this is about to sound, let’s say you became exponentially more popular, or, I don’t know, you got a boyfriend or something.” He hopes the last part of what he’s just said sounds casual, and not painfully obvious.

“Jughead,” she says gently, tilting her head to the side. “Where is this coming from?”

“Sorry,” he says, running his hands across his forehead and through his hair. “I’m tired – I’m doing mental gymnastics about things I shouldn’t even be thinking about. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, you know, going over hypotheticals in my head of things that may never even happen.”

“I do that too,” she tells him. “My therapist says it’s caused by stress.”

He sighs and pushes his back against the couch. “I’ll be quiet now,” he says, propping his head up with a pillow. “Thank you for listening to me.”

“I’ll always listen to you,” she says reassuringly. “You know that.”

“I know you will,” he says. “I guess I just need a reminder once in a while.”

She smiles. “Shall we watch the movie now?”

Relieved, he sighs. “Think you can handle three hours of angst?” he asks candidly.

Her mouth twists into a wry smile. “I handled yours, didn’t I?”

He grins. “Funny,” he says. 

They begin watching the movie again. It’s dark in the room now, but Jughead can still make out the shape of her face. He lets out a quiet, wistful sigh. Her silhouette looks so pretty, even in the dark.

Suddenly, a thing like pressure overtakes him. In fact, it overwhelms him until he can’t ignore it anymore. It feels a lot like someone is pressing down against his shoulders. The only trouble is, though, no one is physically there. But the feeling is there. And the intensity. It grows and grows until it won’t go away – he’s worried that he might say something he’s not ready to say, but he knows he’s about to say it regardless. It’s a strange thing, this feeling. He takes a deep breath, willing it to leave, but the feeling only gets stronger, more intense. It gets so strong, until, finally, he knows what he must do. He knows that if he’ll just take that first leap of faith – telling her how he really feels – regardless of the outcome, he knows – somehow, he knows – that he’ll finally be okay.

As the movie continues to play, he resolves to do tomorrow what he should have done when he first met her. He waits until she’s engrossed in the film to steal another glance at her. No one, except her, has ever been a better friend to him.

He’s hit with a new determination, then - he decides to tell her the truth.

Sooner, rather than later.

...

tbc.

**Author's Note:** If you enjoyed this story, please feel free to download it. <3

All I ask is that you do not distribute this story without _at least_ acknowledging who the author is (me, TMG).

(Or repost w/o permission). Thanks! 


	2. receiving

But I still believe  
I still believe  
Through the pain,  
And through the grief,  
Through the lives,  
Through the storms,  
Through the cries,  
And through the wars.  
Oh, I still believe!

"I Still Believe" - Lyrics By Michael Been and Jim Goodwin 

* * *

The night of the winter formal, everything freezes.

The campus, which now resembles a shaken snow globe, is covered in finely milled snow. The trees look like paintbrushes dipping into the night, and the buildings, which are normally red because their exteriors are composed of an overlay of bricks, have completely changed color.

Winter has arrived, bringing with it a veritable force of snow and ice; it attacks everything in its path – trees, automobiles, and even the signage at the school’s entryway.

The lake on one side of the campus, Lake Abernathy, which runs adjacent to the school grounds, looks like a giant mirror; it sparkles and glistens in the night as the lampstands all over campus blink on.

The night is a dream, but – like the hopes of _some_ of the students – it will melt in the morning, leaving behind it a sad display of watery-ice upon the ground.

Meanwhile, the students inside the dormitories are busy getting ready for the dance. Some of them – the vainer of the lot – are more focused on their physical appearances rather than their snowy surroundings. In fact, many of them have failed to notice the change in the weather at all.

For once, Jughead is the rule rather than the exception. Snow dances across the windowsill outside as he gives himself the once-over. He stares at the young man in the mirror. He blinks. Aside from his face, which looks almost foreign somehow in contrast to the suit on his lower half, he thinks he looks relatively put together. What matters most to him, though, is that he looks the part. He straightens the collar of the suit, which feels stiff against the nape of his neck.

Soon, a knock sounds at the door to his bedroom. In response, Jughead turns his head in the direction of the noise, yelling, “Doors open.”

As the door creaks open, Archie’s head appears behind it. “Are you decent?”

“If you mean, do I look every bit like a penguin now,” he says wittily, “then my answer would be a resounding yes.”

Archie grins and pushes the door open. When he sees Jughead in the suit, his eyebrows arch dramatically. “You almost look better than me in that suit,” he remarks.

“Almost?” he says.

Archie grins. “I brought you something,” he says, holding up a sleek black bag from Bergdorf’s.

Jughead’s brows furrow. “What’s this?” he asks curiously, taking the bag from him and examining its exterior.

“A present from Veronica,” Archie says. “She was insistent.”

Jughead squints at the bag. “A gift at the behest of Veronica,” he says, examining its contents. “Should I be worried?” He looks back at Archie, who appears to know something he doesn’t.

Archie shoves his hands in his pockets. “Open it.”

Jughead pulls out the contents of the bag carefully. Inside, there’s a single black box with a lid on it.

Archie grins. “She said you would know what it’s for,” he says matter-of-factly, watching eagerly as Jughead opens the box.

Jughead pulls the lid off the box and places it on his nightstand. Suddenly, he realizes what it is and looks at Archie. “Cologne?”

Archie suppresses his laughter.

Jughead looks at the sleek blue bottle and sighs. “Am I that obvious?” he says aloud.

Archie grins – he’s making a concerted effort not to laugh. “I mean…”

Jughead gives him the equivalent of a death stare. “Seriously,” he says. “How long have you both known?”

Archie scratches his head awkwardly. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he says. “But it’s, uh, pretty obvious man.”

He sighs. “And all this time I thought I was doing a good job of hiding it,” he says. “That’s…disappointing.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Jughead. I don’t think Betty’s even noticed.”

He smirks. “Thanks for your vote of confidence, Archie.”

“Anytime.”

Jughead pulls the shiny bottle from its cardboard holder. “This is a lot of cologne,” he remarks, peering into the opaque glass.

“Veronica might have used this purchase as an excuse to go shopping,” Archie says.

“ _Might_ have?”

Archie grins. “Whatever, man.”

“Even so, tell Veronica thank you for me,” he says. “She didn’t have to do this.”

“Sure thing,” he says. “I better go, but I’ll uh, see you – _and_ Betty – at the dance, okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Oh, and Jughead?”

“What?”

“Good luck tonight,” he says, closing the door behind him.

“Thanks.”

Once Archie’s gone, he sighs. “Really?” he says aloud.

He wonders if God has a sense of humor.

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The moon is out – it looks like an orb of amber glowing in the darkness.

As Jughead stares into the night sky, he’s reminded of the time he used to look at that same moon at home. There, in the stillness of his bedroom, he would look at it and dream. He would think of all the places he wanted to go, the things he longed to see, and, lastly, the person he wanted to be. Mostly, though, he would dream of the impossible – he would imagine himself in a place like this, wearing the clothes he’s wearing now, and maybe, just maybe – he’d be someone different, too.

At any rate, he wouldn’t be the same young man from the poor side of town whose dad was an alcoholic – no, he would make a name for himself.

So, as he waits for Betty, he thinks of these things again, reminding himself of just how far he’s come. The suit he’s wearing may not be his, but, at least, he tells himself, he’s not living in the same place he was last year.

And tonight, for once, he’s going to pretend he’s where he wants to be. He’s going to pretend that this really is his suit, that he really does belong here, and lastly, that Betty, a girl from a different world, could really be his.

“Hi,” a voice says behind him.

Jughead turns around, and almost instantly he thinks of every horrendous cliché he’s ever read in a novel or seen in a movie.

He swallows. “Hi.”

She smiles. “You weren’t waiting for too long, were you?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “I’ve only been here a few minutes.”

Betty tucks a strand of blonde hair beneath her ear. “Okay, good,” she says, sounding relieved. “I was worried I was taking too long to get ready.”

Jughead exhales and cups the nape of his neck. “You look nice,” he says quietly.

She grins. “So do you.”

He’s nervous suddenly. “The suits not too much, is it?” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying now or why he said that.

She shakes her head. “It fits you nicely,” she replies.

“I loathe dressing up,” he says, “but if you like it, that’s enough for me.”

She grins. “Are you ready to go?”

“As much as I’ll ever be,” he says. “But it’s starting to snow.” He notices her tiny jacket. “Will you be warm enough?” he asks, fumbling over his words. “In that, I mean, your sweater thing or whatever it is.”

“My shawl?”

“Yes?” he asks uncertainly. “I told you I know nothing about fashion,” he adds.

“I think I’ll be okay,” she says to reassure him. “Unless were planning on taking a walk in the snow for an hour,” she adds lightheartedly.

Jughead runs his hands through his hair. “Just wondering,” he says.

Betty glances at the door. “Ready?”

He wonders if he should hold his arm out for her but decides against it at the last second – he tells himself that would be too impetuous.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he replies.

This makes Betty smile. “It won’t be that bad,” she says.

“If you say so.”

She smiles. “Just don’t overthink it and you’ll be fine.”

“I’ll try.”

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The walk to the dance feels a lot like saying goodbye.

As they stroll past several old buildings on campus, and the snow falls all around them, Jughead is keenly aware of what must be done.

Tonight, he’s telling her.

Before long, they reach the threshold of the party. Although they are still standing outside, they can already hear the vibrations of the music emanating from the inside of building. Jughead takes this as his cue – he walks ahead of Betty and opens the door for her.

He tries to sound casual. “After you,” he says.

She smiles. “Why, thank you.”

They step inside, and almost immediately, he’s struck by the inside of the interior.

It almost doesn’t feel real.

The room used to host the winter formal – an antebellum ballroom on the west wing of campus – is covered in tiny white lights, which are hanging from the ceiling. There’s a long punch table on one side of the room, and a matching buffet table on the opposite end. Each table has its own distinct set of decorations – _and_ roses. On each one, there are luminous glass bowls filled with water. Inside the bowls, there are floating votives which glide across the water as a gust of wind – or person – passes by them. Towards the back of the room, there are numerous dining table, some of which are already occupied. But pièce de résistance is the rooms centerpiece: a large rendition of the Eiffel Tower, which is covered in pink and white roses.

Betty’s green eyes widen in awe. “Oh, this is beautiful,” she remarks.

“Okay, I take back everything I said,” Jughead concedes. “This is quite impressive – over the top, and a bit garish for my taste, but impressive nevertheless.”

Betty grins. “Shall we find a table?”

He nods. “I’ll get us drinks.”

Veronica spies them from the punch table. “Guys!” She gulps down the last of the lemonade from her glass, sets it down on the table in front of her, and saunters over to them.

“Oh, here we go.” Jughead turns to the side. “I’m going to need a lot of moxie to get through tonight,” he murmurs within earshot of Betty.

Betty’s eyes meet his in the darkness. “Be nice.” She reaches out to straighten his tie.

He’s surprised by her gesture. “I’ll try,” he tells her.

Veronica clasps her hands together excitedly. “So,” she says, waving her hands at the fanfare in front of them. “How did I do?”

“This is amazing, V.”

Veronica grins. “Thank you.”

“I was a little scared to come here,” Jughead concedes. “But this is quite a party you’ve put together, Veronica. Nicely executed.”

Veronica’s expression is brimming with pride. “I’ll take that as a huge compliment from you,” she says.

“I’m going to grab us a table, V,” Betty says to her. “I’ll see you in a second, Jug.”

Betty heads in the direction of the tables as Veronica laser focuses her attention on Jughead.

“So?” she says. “Did you talk to her?”

He walks down the stairs and stops on the bottom row. “And I suppose you’re going to interrogate me right about now,” he says. “Am I right?”

She grins cheekily. “Your surmise is correct.”

He sighs. “Thank you for the cologne, by the way” he says. “But alas, no.”

“And why not?” she asks candidly.

“Timing,” he says. “And…other things.”

“Well, there’s no time like the present,” she states affirmatively. “What about _now?_ ”

He shakes his head. “Not now,” he says. “There are too many people here, and I don’t want to be interrupted.”

“Uh, huh.” Veronica looks at him like she doesn’t believe him.

“I have a plan,” he says quietly to reassure her. “But said plan does not involve me telling her _here_.”

“Well don’t wait too long, Romeo. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am needed at the dessert bar.”

“Right.” He nods. “See you in a few.”

He watches Veronica as she disappears into the crowd of students in front of him. His eyes move past the group – he spots Betty easily. She’s sitting at a table on the other end of the room waiting for him – she waves.

Jughead sighs. “No time like the present,” he tells himself as he heads towards the punch table.

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Jughead is spooning lemonade into his glass when he hears someone come up beside him.

Reggie grabs a glass flute and attempts to spin the stem around with his fingers. “Saw you in the chapel,” he says nonchalantly.

Annoyed, Jughead sets the silver ladle aside. “And?” he says. “What of it?”

Reggie begins ladling punch into his glass in a slower than usual fashion. “I saw you put a piece of paper into that box,” he says.

“You were watching me?” Jughead says in irritation. “What’s it to you?”

Reggie grins to himself. “Do you really think they read those?”

“Read what?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

“The prayers.”

“Why do you care?”

A look of pride flits across Reggie’s face. “God doesn’t care about you, Jughead. He doesn’t care about you or your pathetic little prayers. You’ll always be nothing more than trailer trash,” he sneers.

Jughead can feel himself tensing up. A feeling like rage washes over him. “So, where’s _your_ date, Reggie?”

He takes a sip of his drink. “I fly solo now,” he says, savoring the tart lemonade between his teeth.

Jughead rolls his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, grabbing the drinks, “Betty’s waiting for me.”

Reggie grins and steps in front of him. “ _She_ is not your date,” he corrects.

“Step aside, Reggie.”

“She’s only hanging out with you because she feels sorry for you, man. Don’t you get it?”

“Thank you for your candor,” Jughead replies coolly, brushing past him.

He tries not to think about what Reggie said as he walks towards the table where Betty is. This proves difficult, however. A small part of him wonders if anything Reggie said was true. He knows how unbelievably nice Betty is to everyone. He also knows that she would do just about anything for anyone, himself included. The thought that perhaps this – attending the dance as friends – really is just a gesture of goodwill on her part, sets his teeth on edge.

Before he reaches the table, he resolves to put on a brave face.

Inside, he feels like fire.

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Jughead sets the glass down beside Betty. “Here,” he says, sitting down in the seat beside her. “I put extra strawberries in yours, although I’m not entirely sure why there is fruit in this.”

“Probably one of Veronica’s finishing touches,” she says.

He eyes the contents of his cup suspiciously. “Perhaps.”

“Hey, Jughead?”

He’s shaking his glass to sift the fruit at the bottom. “Hm?”

“I saw Reggie talking to you at the drink table,” she says. “Is everything copacetic between you two?”

Jughead takes a sip of his drink and stares at the bottom of the glass. “As much as can be expected,” he replies.

“What do you mean?”

He sighs. “Nothing,” he replies. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods. “Quite.” He begins people watching as he takes another sip of his drink.

Betty gazes at the twinkling lights on the ceiling. “This is really is amazing,” she says, looking back at him. “Don’t you think?”

“It is nice,” he agrees. “Although I’m not really into interior decorating.”

“ _Jughead_.”

He smirks. “What?”

“So,” she says. “Shall we go find Veronica and Archie?”

Jughead is still reeling from what Reggie said earlier. “I think I’m just gonna sit and take a breather,” he says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You go ahead. I’ll join you later.”

Betty smiles and grabs her clutch from the table. “Don’t be too long,” she says. “I’m expecting a dance from you later.”

“What?” He looks up at her in surprise.

She grins. “See you in a bit.”

He watches Betty as she heads in the direction of the dance floor. She’s probably just being polite, he tells himself. He sighs and taps the surface of the table, staring at the students around him. When he loses interest in people watching, he looks around the room for an out. There’s a side door at the end of the buffet table – he decides to slip outside unnoticed.

He pushes his back against his chair, stands up, and heads for the door. But before stepping out into the cold again, he gives the room one last look. Everyone seems to be having a good time – at least, as far as he can tell. He finds Betty in the crowd easily – she’s talking to Archie. He feels weird seeing the two of them together like that, like an outsider looking in.

He sighs and pushes the exit door open.

The air outside feels cold to the touch. He rubs his hands together and exhales – his breath appears foggy, like a huff of smoke, against the stillness of the night. He takes a step forward in the snow; it crunches noisily beneath the soles of his shoes.

He sits on the stone bench beside the building and stares into the night. Out here, he feels like he can finally breath again. He glances at the night sky. Because of the darkness, the moon appears closer than ever. In fact, it seems brighter than it normally does, glimmering against the darkness as he eyes it – it’s _almost_ as if someone placed a light into the night and left it there to burn.

He sighs and rests his arms across his abdomen. He’s thinking about how the night has gone so far, and all the things he wants to say to her as snow begins to dust the edge of his suit.

After what feels like forever, his brief solo meditation is interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open behind him.

“Jughead?”

He turns around.

Betty shivers briefly, hugging her arms together. “What are you doing out here?” She steps out into the snow and begins walking towards him.

“Thinking,” he replies.

“About what?”

He stands up gradually from the bench and brushes the snow off his suit. “It’s not important,” he says.

Betty clearly doesn’t believe him. “I saw you disappear out here when I was talking to Archie,” she says quietly, like she’s caught him doing something he didn’t want her to see. “I got worried.”

He shrugs. “I just needed some time to clear my head,” he says. “I was having a Thoreau moment of sorts.”

She looks at him like she can see right through him. “In the snow?” she asks softly.

“There’s a pond over there,” he says, nodding his head at the small pool of water in the distance; it glistens in the darkness.

“I think it’s frozen,” she says. “Why don’t you have your Thoreau moment inside? There’s a dark corner near the tables – I’m sure Veronica would supply you with some paper if you asked.”

He grins. “Very funny.”

Betty pulls the edge of her dress up from the snow. “Jug,” she says, taking a step closer to him. “Why are you really out here? Please tell me.”

“Dances aren’t really my thing,” he says, attempting to deflect the situation.

“I know,” she says. “But I’m glad you came anyways.”

He looks at her apologetically. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m trying here.”

“Well, you should still come inside,” she says.

“And do what?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Get a plate of food. Dance with me?”

“Oh.” He grins. “You were actually serious earlier?”

“In truth, I really don’t want to waste this dress,” she says. “My parents bought it for me, and I at least want to get some wear out of it.”

“So, this is really about fashion?” he asks.

She smiles. “Partly.

He raises his eyebrows.

“ _Okay_ ,” Betty huffs. “One of the older students was eyeing me,” she says. “And I really don’t want to dance with him, Jug. He’s had this lecherous look about him. Like a shark encircling its prey.” She shivers dramatically.

“A shark?” he teases.

“ _Jughead_.”

“Say no more,” he says. “I’ll come inside.”

She gives him a satisfied smile.

“Just don’t make me bait for the shark,” he says jokingly.

“No guarantees,” she adds.

He follows close behind her and they go inside.

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Standing on the dance floor, at least, to Jughead, feels a lot like being on a stage. There are bright lights everywhere, and he swears that everyone – including Betty – is staring at him. He knows they’re waiting on something – he’s waiting for whatever it is, too. But as the lights dim, it becomes apparent that this, and whatever slow song is about to follow, is what they were anticipating all along.

Betty looks at him expectantly. “Ready?”

“I think so.” He’s nervous as he takes a step towards her. When their feet are almost touching, he stops. He can see her smile in the darkness. “Like this?” he asks as his hands come around her waist.

Her arms go around him. “Perfect.” She rests her hands against the nape of his neck.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he admits.

“I don’t think anyone really does. Just follow my lead.”

After a couple of quick steps, and a few missteps, they begin to dance together with ease.

“See, this isn’t so bad, is it?”

He grins. “It’s tolerable,” he replies.

The music begins to slow, and Betty moves in closer to him. 

“You smell nice,” she whispers.

“What?” He’s too distracted by how close they are.

“Your cologne,” she says. “It smells nice.”

“It’s not too much, is it?”

She shakes her head and smiles.

“Good.” He sighs as they continue swaying to the music.

“So,” she says. “Is this night as bad as you imagined it would be?”

He grins. “Not quite.”

“I can’t wait for you to come stay with us over break,” she says. “Unless my sister is home, it can get really boring there by myself.”

“I’m happy to be your entertainment,” he says humorously. “It makes me feel useful.”

“You know what I mean,” she replies.

When the music picks up again, Jughead decides this might be a good time to talk to her about talking _later_.

“Betty?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we talk later,” he says. “Just the two of us, I mean.”

She scoots in a bit closer. “Were talking now,” she says softly. “Something on your mind?”

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he says. “It can’t wait.”

“Oh?” She loosens her grip on his suit collar. “What is it?”

“I just need to talk to you,” he explains.

“Oh.” Betty appears to be mulling things over. “You aren’t cancelling on me for Christmas, are you?”

“What?” he says. “Oh.” He realizes, now, that she’s imagined something entirely different. “No, it’s not about that.”

“Then, what?”

He shakes his head. “Not here,” he says quietly. “There are too many people and I don’t want someone interrupting us.”

“Do you want to talk outside?”

“No.” He lets go of her waist.

“Then, where?”

He shoves his hands in his suit pockets. “I don’t know,” he says. “What about the commons room?”

She smiles. “Let me just find my shawl and we can go, ok?”

“Take your time,” he says, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. “I’ll be here,”

“Be right back,” she says, squeezing his arm gently.

Jughead stares at the dance floor. The strobe lights are swirling around the wood like little orbs as the music begins again.

He wonders if this night is the last memory he’ll have of he and Betty as close friends – the memory of them dancing. 

He sighs.

At least it’s a good one, he thinks.

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The walk to the den, at least for Jughead, feels a lot like a death march. Although he doesn’t know what she’ll say, or how she’ll act when he finally tells her, he knows that after tonight, things will change between them. He isn’t certain if he’s ready for more change, but he knows he can’t _not_ tell her. At this point, he feels like he’s only prolonging his own suffering – that or delaying the inevitable. There is a very real possibility that she could get a boyfriend in the future, and there’s a part of him that doesn’t want that to happen without telling her how he really feels.

Once they’ve walked down the long hallway that leads to the den, Betty turns to face him. “I’m glad were inside now,” she says to him. “It was freezing outside.”

“Me too,” he says.

“So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Unsure of where to begin, Jughead glances at the carpeting beneath his feet. “Just some things that have been on my mind,” he says.

Betty tucks her silver clutch beneath her arm. “Shall we sit down?”

Jughead rubs the back of his head nervously. “Yeah, okay.”

When she turns around, he takes a deep breath and follows her over to the couch. His hands are still in his suit pockets as he sits down beside her. He watches as she smooths the wrinkles in her blue dress down with the palm of her hand.

Betty smiles. “So…” She pulls her shawl closer to her, wrapping it around her arms because it still feels cold, despite the fire burning in the fireplace from across the room. “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” he says, repeating her words back to her. The light of the fire is dancing around her like a shadow, shining against the satin of her dress.

She folds her hands together and rests them in her lap. “What’s on your mind, Jug?”

His throat feels dry as he swallows. “I’m not sure where to begin,” he admits.

“Take your time. We have all night.”

He runs his hands through his hair. “I’m trying,” he murmurs. “This shouldn’t take long.”

She gives him a second to collect his thoughts, staring into the fire from across the room. It crackles loudly as the log beneath it burns.

Jughead exhales. “Remember when I first started here?” he says finally. “I didn’t really know anyone, and you were the first person to introduce yourself to me.”

She grins. “I remember. You were very nervous that day.”

“Oh, I was,” he says. “That day was horrible for me.”

“But everything is better now, isn’t it? I mean, don’t you feel like you’ve really adjusted well since then?”

“Only because of you,” he says.

She smiles and shrugs like it’s a non-issue. “I just wanted you to feel welcome here.”

“And you did,” he says, his eyes meeting hers. “More than you’ll ever know.”

She tilts her head at him. “What’s this about, Jug?”

At first, he’s reluctant to answer. “What this is about,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “is that I just wanted to tell you thank you, and that I don’t know what I would have done without you, honestly. But it’s more than that.” His nerves are beginning to get the better of him now – he rubs the palms of his hands against the sides of his legs without realizing he’s doing it.

There’s a look of uncertainty on her face. Not understanding, Betty says, “I would have done that for anyone, Jug. You know that. You deserve a place here just like everyone else.”

He shuts his eyes. “It’s not that.”

“Then, what?” she asks.

Except for the logs crackling in the fireplace, the room is as silent as ever.

“What I _want_ to say,” he begins cautiously, “is that you are one of the few people in my life that has truly cared about me, and really and truly been there for me, I" – He runs his hands through his hair. “Sorry,” he says. “This is hard for me,” he explains, “exposing my feelings like this isn’t something I normally do.” He stops talking and looks directly at her.

“Of course I care about you,” she whispers, reaching out to him in concern.

Jughead swallows. _Here_ _goes_ , he thinks to himself. Then, he stands up from the couch.

A bewildered expression flits across Betty’s face as she watches him.

“I was thinking about the way you arrange your books and your planner,” he says. “About the way you’re so meticulous with everything in your life, and the way you care about people.” He swallows. “Sometimes I catch myself thinking about it and then I start arranging my things in the same way, too,” he says. “Even when you aren’t around. Because when you’re not around, I’m still thinking about you.”

She stands up slowly from the couch. “Jughead,” she says, her voice sounding strained. “What are you saying?”

He shuts his eyes. “Please,” he whispers, “let me get this out, this is hard enough as it is.”

She waits.

“I think about the way your hair blows in the wind,” he says quietly. “It’s usually in a ponytail, but on the rare occasions it’s not, it blows all over your face, and sometimes when I see someone else with a ponytail, and they turn around and I realize it’s not you, I get disappointed. But mostly I’m just disappointed when I’m not with you, and I think that’s really what I’m trying to say here.”

As the magnitude of what he’s saying finally hits her, Betty listens in stunned silence, trying with some difficulty to not interrupt him.

Jughead realizes that he’s about to lose it, so he says, abruptly “But mostly, I think about how you didn’t want me to be alone for Christmas,” he says, “even though my family doesn’t come from wealth, and how you still invited me to spend the holidays with you and your parents anyways, and that’s when I knew that I would have to tell you, and I didn’t want to because I knew it could ruin everything and probably already has, but I couldn’t not tell you,” he says. “I couldn’t go all this time without telling you all of this.” He realizes he’s crying now, so he says in-between the silent tears which are falling quickly now, “Because when you love someone it’s hard to keep it in and I don’t know, I suppose I’ve messed up everything now, but I had to say something – it was worth the risk and I just couldn’t take it anymore, I’m sorry,” he says, wiping his tears away with the sleeve of his suit.

“ _Jug_.” Her hands cover her mouth.

“I think I should leave now,” he says quietly, pointing in the direction of his room with his thumb. He turns away from her, still wiping his cheeks with his sleeves as he walks.

“Wait,” she says. “Jughead. Please don’t leave.”

His back is still turned to her as he stops. He seems adamant about walking off, but nevertheless, he stops.

She walks over to him, hoping he’ll finally turn around again. When he doesn’t, she stops directly behind him. “Jug,” she says. “Please look at me.”

He doesn’t respond.

So, as gentle as she can manage, she grips the fabric of his suit arm tugging on it gently to get him to turn around and look at her.

At last, he complies, but not without some hesitation on his part. When he finally turns around, he comes face to face with her.

He manages to say, “What?”

She steps closer to him until their faces are almost touching. He’s embarrassed because he knows his eyes are probably red from crying, and what’s worse she’s now looking directly at him. He’s surprised, suddenly, when he feels her hands on his face. Her thumbs sweep the skin beneath his eyes, wiping away his tears.

He tries to pull away, but he can’t.

It happens fast – he looks down at her, and her lips – before he knows it, her lips are on his.

She’s kissing _him_.

Her eyes are still closed as she pulls away from him. “I think about you, too,” she whispers. “And I was hoping for you would ask me to the dance, but perhaps it was supposed to be this way instead,” she says, grinning.

Relieved, he smiles. “You were?”

She nods.

“Really?” he whispers in disbelief.

“I thought it was obvious,” she whispers, tucking a stray hair beneath his ear.

He grins and leans in to kiss her for real this time.

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Jughead wakes to the sound of birds chirping noisily outside his window.

He sits up in bed suddenly, rubbing his eyes as he looks out the window to the right of his bed. The snow, which is falling steadily now, makes everything appear brighter somehow. A crossbill in need of rest, lands on his windowsill briefly – it opens its beak and cocks its head around for a split second before flying off again. As it flies back into the snow, his red wings spread across the slush, tucking in and out against his chest before he disappears entirely.

Jughead yawns. He glances over at his alarm clock: it’s time. He grins – today he’s going home with Betty for the holidays. He can hardly believe last night happened – in his mind, he’s doing the proverbial, _pinch me, am I dreaming?_ Still, he knows he needs to get ready, so he flings the covers and sheets away from his body and angles his feet in the direction of the floor. When they touch the wooden floor beneath the bed, he realizes just how cold it really is, and quickly heads over to where the bathroom is. Inside, he starts the water for a shower, grabs his robe, and slams the door shut.

His shower is over quickly, and he practically trips over the rug outside his bathroom as he hurries over to his dresser to get ready. Once he’s dressed – hair combed, cologne on – he sits on his bed and waits. His bag, which is already packed, is sitting in the corner. He’s unsure of what to do with himself, so he grabs a dog-eared copy of an old literary magazine on his nightstand. He thumbs through the first few pages – he’s nervous.

He wonders if he should rehearse what he’s going to say to her family once he meets them. Such a thought never occurred to him before. Then again, they were still just friends less than twenty-four hours ago – he decides he’s getting ahead of himself.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at his door. He runs over to it, pausing before he opens it in order to catch his breath.

She almost looks prettier in the morning.

She smiles. “Hi.”

He shoves one hand in his jean pocket. “Hi.”

She steps into his room like she’s on a mission. “Are you ready?”

He throws a glance over his shoulder, eyeing his overnight bag. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Her back is turned to him now. She seems to be staring out the window, gazing at something that’s caught her eye. “And you’re sure you don’t mind driving?” she asks, tearing her gaze from the window. “The snow is really coming down now.”

He cups the nape of his neck. “I’ll be alright,” he says quietly.

She tears her gaze from the window. “I always feel safer when I’m with you.” She walks towards him, only stopping when the edges of their shoes are nearly touching. She smiles. “We should probably leave now,” she says softly.

“Okay.” He’s looking at her in the same way he did the night before.

“My parents,” she says. “They’re waiting for us.”

“I’ll get my bag,” he says quickly.

He grabs his overnight bag from the corner and slings the strap over his shoulder. “Luckily for you,” he says, raising his eyebrows almost comically, “I pack light.”

“What exactly are you insinuating?” she asks cheekily.

He grins. “Nothing,” he says amicably. “Oh, but I almost forgot something.”

“What?”

He grabs Betty’s hand and laces her fingers in his. “There,” he says. “Now I have everything I need.”

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Jughead spies the Cooper residence in the distance as he turns the wheel of his truck. It looks like one of those houses you would see in a magazine, and as his truck inches closer to the house, he’s suddenly feeling apprehensive. A part of him wonders if this – whatever he and Betty are now – is just a fleeting thing. The mere thought that it could expire at some point makes him feel disheartened.

But, despite his fears, and however irrational they may to be, he’s reassured when he catches a glimpse of Betty in the rearview mirror – she smiles.

“Almost there,” she says excitedly, squeezing his arm as his truck rounds the corner. As the house comes into full view, she sits up. “It’s that one,” Betty says, pointing at the Colonial Revival house at the end of the street.

“Where should I park?”

“The driveway is fine,” she says.

He pulls into the long driveway, shifts gears, and puts his truck in park. The windows on either side of them are frosted over and snow is still falling steadily from the sky.

“I can’t wait for them to meet you,” she says, the hum of the engine beneath them.

Jughead rubs his head awkwardly “What if they don’t share your enthusiasm,” he says quietly.

“ _Jug_.”

“What?”

Betty reaches for his hand. “They will,” she says reassuringly. “I promise.”

“Should I unload the car?” he asks.

“Let’s do it later. I want them to meet you first.”

They both exit the car at roughly the same pace. Betty walks over to the driver’s side to meet him. As they begin walking towards the front door, he’s hit with the realization that his parents probably don’t know they’re effectively dating now. He wonders if Betty’s told them anything about him. Then again, he realizes, she probably isn’t going to tell them everything, anyways. So, he’s surprised when she grabs his hand and laces her fingers in his as they stop at the front door. She grins and looks at him, and proceeds to turn the knob and push the door open.

She tugs him inside as her mother and father emerge from the den.

“Mom, Dad,” she says. “This is Jughead.”

They’re still holding hands as her parents come out to greet them.

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After dinner, and a lengthy conversation with Betty’s parents, the pair decide to retreat to the living room for a bit of solitude. They settle onto the sofa; both are now wearing their pajamas and socks. Betty hoists her legs onto the ottoman and glances at Jughead – he looks a lot less relaxed than she is.

“So, that went really well,” she whispers to him.

“Are you sure?” he asks worriedly.

“Positive.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well for starters,” she says, “my dad didn’t interrogate you.”

“Oh.” Jughead raises his eyebrows. “Does he normally do that?”

“Only with people he doesn’t trust,” Betty says matter-of-factly.

His eyes widen. “Comforting to know,” he murmurs.

Betty grins and turns on the tv. “Don’t worry,” she tells him assuredly. “You _more_ than passed.”

Jughead exhales. “That’s a relief,” he says, taking a moment to look around the room.

Snow is pelting against the windows outside. Jughead watches as it collects at the bottom, forming into a pile of ice. As the wind picks up, the snow on the tops of the mounds begin blowing back into the breeze, like ice dust. Just then, a red sports car drives past their house; it causes more snow to amass on the edge of the Cooper’s driveway as it shoots out from the ends of the tires and settles back onto the road.

Jughead sighs and pushes his back against the couch, shutting his eyes for a second – he’s thinking. He wonders what it would be like to live in a house like this all the time, a house with two parents – _and_ Betty. His near daydream is interrupted by the sound of high heels walking down the hallway.

Alice, who is now dressed for the acclimate weather, stands in the doorway of the den. “Are you sure you two don’t want to go downtown with us?” she asks, adjusting the collar of her peacoat. “Maybe Jughead would enjoy seeing the light display, Betty.” She puts her hands in her coat pockets as she waits for one of them to say something.

Uncertain of how he should respond, Jughead glances at Betty.

She shakes her head. “That’s okay, mom. I think Jughead and I will just stay in tonight,” she says.

“The mall isn’t really my thing, Mrs. Cooper.”

“I hear that,” Hal murmurs in agreement behind Alice as he zips up his long winter coat.

Alice gives him a stern look.

“What?” Hall says, buttoning up his coat.

Jughead suppresses a laugh.

“Anyways,” Alice says. “We should be back in a few hours. There are leftovers in the fridge, and you know where to reach us if you need us.”

Betty grins. “Thanks mom.”

“Call us if you need anything,” Hall adds quickly as Alice opens the front door.

Betty pulls the blanket on the coach up to her chest. “We will,” she says earnestly. “I promise.”

Mr. Cooper gives a wave of his hand. “Night,” he says, shutting the door behind he and Alice.

“Your parents seem nice,” Jughead says to her.

“They have their moments,” Betty says, agreeing with him. “But I think they are on their best behavior tonight, though.”

“Why?” he asks. “Because of me?”

“Of course,” she says. “Believe it or not, they want to make a good impression on you, too.”

He grins. “I guess I never thought of it that way.”

“What do you want to do now?” Betty asks, tucking herself into his side.

He shrugs. “It’s your house,” he says. “What do you usually do?”

“Shall we watch a movie?”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Betty grabs the remote and turns on the television. “I’ll put the movie channel on until we find something that looks interesting,” she says. “Let me know if you see anything you like.”

Several minutes pass. Jughead is unsure of how to proceed, or what to say next. So, he grabs her hand and holds it. Betty responds by leaning into his side just a little.

“Maybe we’ll just watch tv,” she says, yawning.

“Already tired?” he says.

“A little,” she says sleepily.

He grins and looks at her. “Betty,” he says. “It’s only _six_.”

She shuts her eyes. “So?” She smiles.

“Well don’t fall asleep on me,” he says. “I don’t want to be the only one awake at your house.”

“You’ll be fine,” she whispers, settling comfortably against his side.

They watch the television for a few more minutes. This gives Jughead time to think. As he looks around the room, he sees smiling family photos on practically every wall, photos from vacations he wishes he could be a part of. He wishes that he could have a family like this one day, and a permanent place to call home. Soon, a feeling of peace washes over him. It feels like the warmth of a blanket, and the coolness of the breeze all wrapped into one. He sighs and shuts his eyes.

_Maybe_ , he thinks, that day isn’t too far off.

“Betty?” He squeezes her hand to get her attention.

She yawns and opens her eyes. Then, she untucks herself from his side and turns to face him.

Jughead takes a deep breath and exhales.

She tucks a stray hair behind his ear, smiling at him as he looks back at her. “What is it?”

“I love you,” he whispers.

For a moment, Betty stares at him in disbelief. Then, slowly, as the realization of what he’s just said hits her, a smile spreads across her face.

“I love you, too,” she whispers back, leaning in to kiss him.

_____

_**Fin**_.

Lord, this one's for you, the _first_ of its kind. 

Hope you guys enjoyed it. x

-TMG

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated.  
> Hope you enjoyed it. x 
> 
> -TMG


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